Copyright © Éditions Grasset & Fasquelle, 2009
Originally published as Les Prétendants by
Éditions Grasset & Fasquelle, 2009
Translation copyright © 2012 Linda Coverdale
Production Editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper. For information write to Other Press LLC, 2 Park Avenue, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10016. Or visit our Web site: www.otherpress.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
David-Weill, Cécile, date
[Prétendants. English]
The suitors / by Cecile David-Weill; translated by Linda Coverdale.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-59051-574-7
1. Sisters—France—Fiction.
2. Rich people—France—Fiction. 3. Upper class families—France—Fiction.
I. Coverdale, Linda. II. Title.
PQ2672.A162174P7413 2012
843′.914—dc23
2012014605
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
v3.1
To
PIERRE, LAURE, AND ALICE
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One: Prologue
1
Spring 2007
Nanny
The house
Two: Weekend of July 14
Friday, 7:00 a.m.
The Rules of the Game, film by Jean Renoir (1939)
Friday, 12:30 p.m.
Friday, 3:00 p.m.
Friday, 6:30 p.m.
Friday, 8:00 p.m.
Dinner, Friday, July 14
Saturday, 9:00 a.m.
Luncheon, Saturday, July 15
Saturday, 6:30 p.m.
The beach in winter
Dinner, Saturday, July 15
Sunday
Luncheon, Sunday, July 16
Three: Weekend of July 21
Friday, 6:00 p.m.
Dinner, Friday, July 21
Friday, 11:00 p.m.
Saturday, 9:30 a.m.
Saturday, 1:30 p.m.
Luncheon, Saturday, July 22
The shortcut
Saturday, 7:00 p.m.
Dinner, Saturday, July 22
Sunday, 9:30 a.m.
Luncheon, Sunday, July 23
Four: Weekend of July 28
Friday, 6:00 p.m.
Trop bien élevé, 2007, by Jean-Denis Bredin
Dinner, Friday, July 28
Saturday, 8:00 a.m.
Luncheon, Saturday, July 29
Dinner, Saturday, July 29
The road to Eden-Roc
Sunday, 1:00 p.m.
Thank-you letter
Five: Appendices
The Characters
Staff Menu Notebook
Kitchen Cabinet Inventory
Recipe Inventory
Recipes
Spring 2007
It was a Sunday like any other. My son, Felix, was with his father. My sister and I always arranged to have dinner at least once a month with our parents, and now that May was almost over, the weather was becoming pleasant, so our conversation that night would inevitably focus on our plans for the summer. I must have been really bored given that I was looking forward to an evening I had already been through year after year, like clockwork! I felt a twinge of melancholy; my life was decidedly uneventful. I had Felix’s well-being and my patients’ anxieties to keep me busy, but no passions of my own. I felt empty. In the end, though, I convinced myself that there was nothing wrong with taking pleasure in a family ritual I knew completely by heart.
I could see it all in detail: Marie and I would meet in the courtyard at five to nine to compliment each other on our outfits before braving the indifference of our mother, who never seemed to notice our efforts to meet with her sartorial approval. Sunday dinners were a contest of couture: we had to appear both stylish and relaxed, in a gently tailored suit, for example, or some chic sportswear. It was a game at which my sister was an acknowledged champion.
We would troop to the kitchen to fetch the light supper the cook had left for us on his day off, and then the table conversation would naturally turn to the approaching summer.
“Always the same guests!” my father would complain with a sigh.
My mother, her chestnut hair in a chignon, elegantly thin in a smart housecoat (that old-fashioned garment halfway between a robe and an evening gown), would protest that she was doing her very best. Wasn’t she working hard enough as it was to bring fresh faces to the usual cast of characters? It was much more difficult than it looked to come up, year after year, with people who were well mannered, interesting, clever conversationalists, but not freeloaders. Then my mother would pause, pretending to surrender.
“After all, you’re right. Still, I don’t know … My latest attempts … Remember Joy, Moïra, Samuel … The graft didn’t … didn’t take. They seemed charming, and then … disaster.”
Marie and I would simply look at each other to make sure we weren’t imagining things. Since no one else ever seemed to notice whenever our mother fumbled, disconcertingly, for words, any comments my sister and I might have made would have sounded mean, bringing a sour note to the pleasure of discussing our summer house.
Because for us, L’Agapanthe was a haven of happiness.
Sheltered from time, it was a world of its own, one of luxury and lighthearted enjoyment. We spoke of it with pride, the way other people talk about the family eccentric or some colorful character they feel privileged to know. L’Agapanthe was not the ordinary summer-house of rose-colored childhood, conjuring nostalgia and memories out of bread and jam, French toast, and skinned knees. No. During the summer months, just like an ocean liner, the house required birds of passage and a large staff. In short, it was what is properly referred to as a “bonne maison.”
This shameless, snobbish understatement referred to the handful of houses around the world on that same grand scale, combining luxury, perfect taste, and a refined way of life. In the same way they would have said “grandes familles” or “grands hôtels,” the servants in such houses referred to them as “grandes maisons,” and without describing them or defining what they had in common, these experts could have rattled off a list on Corsica, in Mexico, in Tuscany, or on Corfu, an inventory far more private than the host of palatial European hotels touted everywhere in travel guides and magazines.
These houses always had:
Dumbwaiters
Walk-in cold rooms
Bell boards for the upstairs rooms
Vans for grocery shopping
Cupboards for breakfast trays
A kitchen (for the cooks)
A pantry (for the butlers)
A laundry room with linen closets
A room with a copper sink for arranging flowers and storing vases
Cellars
Storerooms
And extensive servants’ quarters
From these houses were banished all dishwashers, microwave ovens, televisions in lounges, TV dinners, easygoing informality, and any form of casual attire.
One of the chief criteria of a “g
ood house” was the beauty of the place, from which the patina of time must have effaced all triviality, a requirement that disqualified even the grandest of modern houses. Not even historical monuments were allowed into the fold, those stately homes whose owners, rarely wealthy, often found themselves the guardians of traditions it was their duty to uphold, even at the cost of bankruptcy. For unlike a chatelain, the master of a “good house” devoted his culture, his fortune, and his savoir vivre to the pleasure he offered his guests. His objective? To make them forget all material cares and thus freely enjoy the beauty of his house, his works of art, his bountiful table, and sprightly conversation in good company.
Plainly put, in a “good house,” chambermaids unpacked and repacked—with a great flurry of tissue paper—the suitcases of guests, who found their rooms provided with pretty sheets, mineral water, fruit, flowers, and a safe, as well as matches, pencils, and writing paper all embossed with the name of the house. But most important, the guests were not obliged to do anything—not to play sports, or go sightseeing, even though all that and more was available and easily arranged, should anyone wish it. The only compulsory ritual was mealtime, like prayers at a lay convent where one’s thoughts were otherwise free to roam at will.
And L’Agapanthe clearly fit this long and curious definition of a “good house,” so handsomely did this magical place succeed in halting the passage of time, which hung suspended in a bygone age of breathtaking yet unpretentious luxury.
During our family discussions at the dinner table about potential houseguests for the summer, if Marie or I ever dared agree with our father’s gentle criticism, our mother, like the sensitive soul she really was, would immediately go on the attack, pointing out that at L’Agapanthe, she had to be more like the manager of a luxury hotel than merely the mistress of the house.
Once again, Marie and I would be relieved to find that when it came to running her house, she spoke with her usual commanding confidence. Then we’d flatter her shamelessly, to satisfy her thirst for recognition and bring us at last to our favorite headache: Casting the Guests.
Increasingly dispirited by the lackluster impression left by our last few summers, my father would finally sound sincere when he asked us to suggest ideas for new table companions.
For if my mother was reluctant to go looking for new faces, it was probably to avoid admitting to herself that she had no idea how to go about it. She would have had to accept that even she had aged, and that it was increasingly difficult for her to “do her shopping” within her generation. Not that her peers were keeling over left and right, no, but the increasing ravages of old age were turning more and more of them into embittered cranks, self-righteous prigs, snobs obsessed with honors and distinctions, or blowhards puffed up with self-importance. Yet turning to the younger generation for fresh blood, she feared, would leave her as vulnerable and intimidated as a new kid in a schoolyard.
“But Flokie,” my father would ask impatiently, “how do others manage?”
“Others?”
“Yes, the people we know.”
This is where Marie and I would intervene, reminding our parents that they traveled so much that they no longer had the opportunity to make new acquaintances at dinner parties in town. We’d explain to them that most of their friends simply picked up their phones to invite whomever they felt like seeing: a writer in vogue, a powerful government official, an up-and-coming scientist, or a greedy financier—celebrities whose dazzling, sexy, and prestigious presence would reflect brilliantly on their hosts.
My parents would gape with astonishment to learn that people in their circle were now behaving like television personalities preparing the guest lists for their talk shows, a tactic that would never have occurred to them.
For they had no idea, either, how many people would have given anything to receive an invitation to L’Agapanthe, and if Marie and I had told them the names of people who we knew for a fact were dying to come, they would still have only half believed us. Since they themselves went no farther than identifying and avoiding the more obvious social climbers, they seldom noticed the discreet nudges and subtle maneuvers of aspirants who craved such an invitation, and as they personally had never yearned to belong to any “in crowd,” of course they couldn’t imagine why others would feel that way about them.
My parents had been brought up with the idea that they represented the pinnacle of chic. The tranquil arrogance of their modesty was proof of that. They were completely unaware, however, that their acquaintances saw them in such a light. Did other people even exist sufficiently in my parents’ eyes for them to notice this? Blissfully ignorant of the insecurity that drives human beings to study their reflections in the eyes of others, my parents simply weren’t observant enough to imagine that anyone might fantasize about them.
Too honest and intelligent to let themselves succumb to narcissism, my parents had decided to pay no attention to the illusion of success or the thrill of having one’s picture in the papers. And so, far from being the caricatures of art and business moguls that they had become in the press, my parents thought of themselves as timid people, courteous and ill suited to the excessive familiarity in vogue with fashionable folk.
And this was part of their charm. It was not celebrities they invited but people chosen for their conversation, their beauty, their culture, or because they were jolly, kind, inspired sympathy, or were simply owed a return invitation. Sometimes my parents just wanted to offer a week of luxury to a friend in the doldrums or a cousin in dire financial straits. Their principles, however, could affect their decisions: they would refuse to invite a minister then in office or anyone basking in the glory of a career at its zenith, while they made it a point of honor to have those same people over when they faced dark times.
In any case, to the great surprise of the rare newcomers invited to L’Agapanthe, my parents’ hospitality was genuine. Puzzled by such unselfishness, some guests wondered why they had been invited at all, but in the end, lulled by the old-fashioned and candid sense of propriety that clearly reigned in the house, they relaxed and realized that they had been chosen simply for themselves.
Well, that was the romantic version of the facts. But L’Agapanthe really did have a strange effect on a surprising number of people, changing some, while revealing the true nature of others. Impressed by the house, the quieter guests worried that they might not appear sufficiently elegant or cultured, and some would begin to talk loudly or laugh at every turn to boost their self-confidence, whereas a frivolous creature might suddenly start pontificating on politics and the economy, hoping to be taken for an intellectual. Unfortunate shortcomings came occasionally to light: I once caught a populist politician bullying the servants, and one of France’s grandest dukes stuffing his pockets with the Havana cigars set out for guests.
So it’s not surprising, really, that my parents were cautious with their invitations.
“Why don’t you invite Claude Lévi-Strauss or Martin Scorsese? That could be interesting,” Marie would quip.
She knew as well as I did that we were really there to amuse our parents, not to give them ideas, since neither of them was ready to relinquish any of their prerogatives as hosts. Quite the opposite: they needed us to witness their powers of decision so as to reinforce their own sense of authority. Not that we minded, for these sessions strengthened our family bonds in the name of certain values, which, because of our constant fear of seeming pompous or pretentious, we simply called “our kind of beauty.”
Although unspoken, the selective criteria for these values were many and precise. Good manners topped the list. The formality of life in L’Agapanthe required a comfortable command of conventions, which naturally closed the door to anyone unfamiliar with such standards. Houseguests were well advised to be accustomed to servants and possess a sure mastery of table manners and household protocol—the proper usage of finger bowls and salad plates, and the correct distribution of tips—even though this knowledge of etiquette se
rved our guests chiefly by allowing them to flout the rules with the necessary knowledgeable flair.
To tell the truth, we were particularly amused by outdated yet still picturesque fashion precepts such as the Brits’ No yellow shoes after six, or the strict injunction No velvet after Easter, which only my mother still respected. We likened the Americans’ outrage at the wearing of light-colored pants after Labor Day to the British restriction of port drinking to months with an r (like the French and oysters, only from September to April), and the wearing of blazers to months without an r (May to August). In other words, a man in a blazer drinking port would be a lost cause.
All else paled, however, before our devotion to the most basic politeness, which demanded tactful and attentive behavior toward others. We would never have put up with a guest rudely interrupting someone, or entering a room before an elderly person, or—if he were a man—remaining seated when a woman joined our company.
Although we relied on such conventions in judging the quality of people’s upbringing and character, we really judged our guests only according to their practice of understatement. This discipline, at which Marie and I excelled thanks to extensive training and observation, implied a certain modesty of tone and attitude. For example, we were reprimanded as children whenever we called the château where we spent our weekends anything other than a house, or the two-hundred-foot yacht on which we occasionally cruised anything fancier than a boat. We noticed that our grandmother ordered her sable coats shaved to make them look like mink and that our parents seated their guests on patio furniture without announcing that it had been designed by Sol LeWitt, and served them dinner on plates they never mentioned had been created by Picasso.
The Suitors Page 1
